A Box Full Of Sharp Objects
by sureaintmebabe
Summary: After a serious head injury, Sherlock's Mind Palace is a mess. Mycroft sends a trunk of his brother's childhood/adolescence/Uni stuff to 221B. It could be the making of his brother, or make him worse than ever. But although memories can be painful things, Sherlock can rejoice that now he has John to help him. Johnlockish.
1. Chapter 1

Notes:

This work wouldn't be possible without **foreverwholocked**, my fantastic beta and britpicker. She does an amazing job putting up with my writing and having the patience to answer my questions! Thank you so much, dear! (Oh God, I sound like Mrs. Hudson!)

This work is unapologetically inspired by **Saving Sherlock Holmes** by **earlgreytea68** (on ao3), a story that I've read more than ten times, and my favorite work of all. If you haven't read it yet, please do it!

*  
The title is from a The Used song that was kind of important to me when I was a teenager:

"Today I fell and felt better  
Just knowing this matters  
I just feel stronger and sharper  
Found a box full of sharp objects what a beautiful thing"

(The Used - A Box Full of Sharp Objects)

I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I did writing! (: I'll try to keep my updates on a weekly basis, I hope you'd like to follow!

Reviews are always welcome!

Now, let's get started!

**OOooOOooOOooOO**

**CHAPTER 1**

It wasn't something unexpected, really.

After so much time running through London, chasing criminals and being completely unobservant of his own well-being; it wasn't a surprise that Sherlock Holmes would get a serious injury.

After all, John Watson could only be Sherlock's protector to a certain point. He couldn't just read Sherlock's mind and immediately know where the detective would run to on his own. Fortunately, he knew his flatmate was a stupid genius and the help arrived sooner than later.

A blunt force trauma to the head. Surely Sherlock would love the jargon. A ridiculously vicious blow to the head that left the consulting detective laying on the hospital bed for three weeks, waking up from time to time only to find John spread uncomfortably on the plastic chair, never leaving his side. But who would be surprised by that? Only Sherlock; the idiot.

Also, only Sherlock, the idiot, would think he could be able to fool Doctor John Watson, trying to convince him that things were fine. Sherlock remained stoic and petulant, but his friend just knew that something was off. Mycroft had visited Sherlock a few days ago, and was welcomed only by silence rather than an insult or an annoyed quip at his diet – so John knew something was definitely wrong.

It wasn't unexpected; disorientation and memory loss weren't rare consequences of that kind of injury.

After observing Sherlock for a week, John realized that the detective knew very well who he, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Molly were, but couldn't shake off the feeling that Sherlock seemed a bit lost in his own character.

He was definitely the same brilliant bastard, deducing the nurse's affair and the hospital doctor's recent trip to Hawaii for a _private_ and _embarrassing_ reason, but John wasn't satisfied.

And he knew that asking Sherlock if everything was fine was the most disappointing way of getting nowhere. He decided to take the matter into his own hands – or rather, Mycroft's hands.

So it didn't surprise John when after three days of being back home, Sherlock received a rather large wooden trunk, probably more valuable than every piece of furniture in Baker Street combined. John tried to hide his own self-satisfied smile, but of course, he couldn't.

"Are you going to act with my brother behind my back now?" Sherlock asked, without really paying any attention to the trunk. He regarded it suspiciously from the sofa, and continued to get himself into a sulking mood.

John rolled his eyes. Really, sometimes it was like living with a diva, what with all the dramatic coats and dressing gowns. "Don't be daft. I know you need it. I'm a quite good doctor," he said, bringing Sherlock a steaming mug of tea and placing it on the coffee table.

Sherlock just sulked even more. "Well, nobody in the hospital seemed to notice, so stop wasting your medical training on me; I'm fine. Go bother someone else with it."

John should be offended, but he hadn't been a Captain in the army for nothing. He could only grin at the sulking detective and think of a million ways to be even more annoying. "Yes, but those doctors aren't really your doctors, are they? Guess who is your doctor? Me. I also happen to live with you and I plan making your life a living hell if you don't sit up right now and drink your bloody tea. And today you're eating lunch," he said, smirking. "Be nice to your friend - who also happens to be your doctor - if you don't want Lestrade to ban you from crime scenes for the next month," he finished, already going back to the kitchen.

"You wouldn't dare," Sherlock hissed.

"Oh, try me, Sherlock Holmes. Just bloody try me."

"You wouldn't stand me without crime scenes for a month!"

"I invaded Afghanistan, I was a trauma surgeon at _war_ for almost a decade. And," he paused, "I live with you." John said tacitly, hoping to have made his point and maybe – just maybe – enjoying just a little too much his friend's fragile state. At Sherlock surprised expression, John could only grin some more. "Good. Now, drink your damn tea."

* * *

For the rest of that day, John's plan had been fairly simple: he was going to go out to finally meet his current girlfriend for some dinner and maybe a movie, after weeks without seeing her.

It would have been be useless, anyway. How could he have a date while Sherlock was in hospital, sleeping alone in an unfamiliar room, and risking him waking up disorientated, calling for John? That wouldn't do. He was just sparing Katherine the embarrassment of being left behind in a restaurant when someone called him saying that Sherlock was awake.

Katherine had not been happy about it. The same argument he had had over and over again with his girlfriends, his sister, or anyone who didn't know Sherlock: '_he's sucking the life out of you'_, '_he doesn't deserve it'_, and his favourite one, '_he's taking advantage of you'_. In John's opinion, those people could just sod off, because he was a grown-up, thank you very much, and Sherlock didn't do anything that John didn't let him do.

Unbelievable as it was, John had actually chosen that life. Surely, having a girlfriend to have dinner and some sex (if it wasn't too much to ask) would be lovely, but being a doctor and a fighter was what he did; it was who he was. He'd be damned if anything else was more important than this.

Katherine probably wouldn't last long because they weren't seeing each other. If John was honest with himself, he knew that that would be their last date. He should probably be worried, but he had a consulting detective to look after; he didn't have the time.

And quite frankly, not even he could understand why he still bothered with the girlfriend thing. One does not keep a girlfriend and be Sherlock's flatmate (and doctor, and friend, and partner, and butler – _Oh God, what is his life?_) at the same time. It's simply impossible. It's basic physics. How can he be with a girlfriend when Sherlock would occupy every single second of his time? – and honestly, it didn't bother him as much as he reckoned it should. Normally John would be cross about Sherlock driving him away and shutting him out, and not about the other way around. Well, he chose not to think about this very much. Things are the way they are. And John is a man of action, not a philosopher, for Christ's sake.

So that day the plan was Katherine. At least it was.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't explain exactly what was wrong with him. And for him to admit that would be similar to the end of the world. How could he not know something? It was maddening, really.

His life was a blur. Surely he remembered his brother and his parents, his grandparents, but for some unknown reason, all events from his childhood and early years seemed blurry and distant. Too distant for him to remember. And he was Sherlock Holmes, he remembered everything he wanted.

Maybe the injury had damaged the parts which he kept hidden, and didn't access much.

The trunk had been a great idea. He knew that. John wasn't only a great doctor, he was a thoughtful friend, and he would always come up with the best solutions for these kinds of things. Sherlock was really good at helping people find clues and criminals, but John was even better in helping his friends. The trunk could help, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to open it.

Being afraid wasn't something the detective was used to. Being afraid of his own mind was even worse. Surely he was used to paying the price for the brain he had. Of course all of that data, the speed of his thoughts, the inability to shut it down had always been there. But Sherlock had never been afraid. He had always done what he had to do to deal with his own mind: cases, cocaine, violin, more cocaine.

But now he was afraid. Afraid of not being able to restore the corridors and rooms of his Mind Palace, afraid of losing the memories he had had the trouble to keep hidden, but safe.

What if he couldn't remember properly? What if the data got mixed and he got confused? What if the damage got in the way of The Work?

What if all the floating data damaged the other memories? What if the other rooms in his Mind Palace were damaged in the process?

No. That wouldn't do.

Sherlock was almost convinced that the best thing to do was to ignore the whole thing, to wait for the memories to get back without help. He, the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was afraid of some brain work. He, the self-proclaimed sociopath, was afraid of all the sentiment attached to the memories he would have to access. He wasn't stupid. He knew memories weren't only facts, even if he really liked to pretend most of the time. For example, he knew that knowing all the jumpers John had wasn't only the fact that John had many jumpers, but also what Sherlock had felt every single time John had used every single one of those hideous jumpers of his. Thinking about all the sentiment that was kept in that trunk made Sherlock shiver.

He didn't want to do it. From the moment he saw the damn thing he didn't want to open it. He didn't know what Mycroft had gathered and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Sherlock was starting to feel miserable – not that he would say this out loud, of course. He curled into the smallest ball he could, and wished the wooden thing would just go away along with all the confusion inside his head. He couldn't think, and at the same time he thought too much. Some of the data inside his mind didn't make any sense, and how could he make any sense of things if he was afraid of opening a simple wooden box?

Sherlock was so lost in his own mind that he almost didn't notice his flatmate beside him.

"Sit up, let me see your head," John said, sitting on the coffee table.

Sherlock huffed. "Really, John, my head is right here on my neck, I'm sure you can see it."

John rolled his eyes. _Dear Lord, give patience_. "Up, come on," he said, choosing not to have a useless argument about the place of the head, and grabbed Sherlock by the arm. He examined the healing scar and seemed satisfied. Looking at the still closed trunk, he frowned. "Why haven't you opened it yet? It's going to help you to be less confused."

Sherlock looked miserably at his trunk and shuddered. "I'm not sure about that."

Sherlock looked miserable. And that alone was enough to make John worried. It was always a possibility that Sherlock could seem uninterested in opening the trunk because he thought it would be useless, but this was different. John knew Sherlock and that look on his face wasn't nonchalance, it was fear.

John was never prepared to see that look on Sherlock's face, that look he had on his face when he thought he had seen a gigantic hound. John was never prepared to realize how young Sherlock seemed in those times.

"What is it?" John asked, and that wasn't Doctor Watson, that was John, Sherlock's best friend.

"My Mind Palace is damaged, I'm worried the data will get mixed," Sherlock said, sitting with his knees up, and his chin rested on them. "I'm thinking too much, but my thoughts aren't quite right, I'm not sure about my memories. My brain doesn't work the way yours does, I don't know if I can control the data inside my own head," he said. And John could see his hands shaking lightly.

"Okay, I understand. Answer me honestly. Are you feeling any sort of headache? Please, be honest. Any minor one?" John asked, worried. Sherlock's brain really wasn't a common one, but that could be the result of some late brain bleeding. Maybe the result of some pain Sherlock chose not to verbalize. It wouldn't be the first time.

"John, I'm not an idiot. I wouldn't put myself in risk of cerebral bleeding!"

But John didn't seem convinced.

"I'm not in pain!" Sherlock raised his voice. "I'm afraid of losing data that I won't be able to gather again. That," he said pointing to the wooden trunk just beside the coffee table, "might be too much."

John resisted the urge of taking Sherlock's hand or of offering any physical contact to show support. He knew Sherlock wouldn't like it. And he wasn't sure which one of them needed more reassurance. Seeing Sherlock getting worked up about his own brain always worried John. The bullets in the wall, the pig's blood and the harpoon, the cocaine, the nicotine patches. Sherlock always functioned in such high speed that John was always afraid that someday Sherlock would be a train wreck he wouldn't be able to stop. And if he couldn't, who would?

"Just... Go away. Leave me alone," Sherlock said, trying to curl into a ball even tighter.

Normally John would oblige without second thoughts. Actually, normally Sherlock didn't have to ask John to leave him alone. The two of them functioned so well together because these things weren't needed. John wasn't Molly; he didn't try to make small talk with Sherlock. John just let him be. In fact, Sherlock was the one who talked so much to John that sometimes he didn't even bother checking if the doctor was at home or not.

That day John thought better than to obey, though. He just knew.

"I won't leave you alone today, Sherlock." he said, only to feel Sherlock's surprised gaze on him. "Maybe I can help you. I can show you one object at a time, and you try to remember something about it, okay? You can tell me if you think that would be better. You normally think better talking out loud, don't you? I'll open the trunk for you and we'll do this." Yes, John sounded like a mother hen. Something between his own mother and Mrs. Hudson. He even thought he would call Sherlock 'dear' and bake him scones if it would help him to be less frightened. John would never admit that, but a frightened Sherlock was one of the only things John was afraid of. "I'll make tea and we can spend the evening getting your thoughts straight, hm?"

"I-" Sherlock seemed confused. He narrowed his eyes. "You have a date today. You haven't met anyone these past few weeks, so it must be the last one. I don't remember her boring name, I deleted it."

_Oh. Damn it. Damn it, damn it. Poor Katherine._

"You know what? Don't bother. You have important things to remember. I'll call her to cancel." John said, already standing up and heading for his room. "I'm going to change and then I'm going to make same tea. And you are eating biscuits."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but smiled. "I... I appreciate it," Sherlock said, so low that for a moment John didn't know if he had actually heard it. "... but still there's no need", he finished, even lower. And this time, John really didn't hear.

Not that Sherlock would like him to hear.

Frankly, what would Sherlock do without John?

* * *

Well, poor Katherine. John could only laugh. Surely it was some kind of intervention from God. John would be better off just leaving the poor girl alone. He should feel more concerned about how easy it was for him to spend a month cancelling dates, but he was only feeling guilty about the girl. She was such a nice person, and he hoped she would find someone who at least would give her some time.

John thought about sending a simple text. But what could he write?

'Sorry, I'm cancelling again, because Sherlock has a trunk he's afraid to open. The trunk is more important than you. But I would stay home if he had a headache too. I would stay home if he didn't eat his dinner too. Yes, I would probably stay home if he seemed troubled in his sleep'.

_Oh God_.

Really, what could he text the poor girl? He had to call her.

"Hi! I'm so sorry, but I'll have to cancel tonight- Yes, I know, you're right- No, I don't think you're stupid- I know, you're right..." John stood in his room, holding the phone with his shoulder and changing his jeans to comfortable pyjamas bottoms. Why did he want to go out anyway?

"Yes, I'm still here- No, you're right, I already said that. He's injured- I'm a doctor, I can't leave him-" John sighed. Why did he want to go out indeed? And Kat had this annoying voice! _Good Lord in Heaven, just shut up_.

"Listen!" John said, raising his voice, despite himself. "You're not listening. I already told you you're right, what do you want me to say?" John let her babble and changed his shirt for an old t-shirt.

Really, pyjamas, socks and tea. Who cares about going out anyway? "Yes- He has memory loss! Yes, it was probably his fault. Listen-" John sighed. It was surprising that he managed to control his anger. If Kat only knew of his rows with the chip and pin machine, she would just shut up and hung up on him.

"Listen, Kat! You're not listening! You're right about priorities, he is my priority, I'm sorry if I didn't tell you before. But it should've been obvious-" Yep. Just like that, Kat finally gave up.

_Good God._

* * *

After finishing one of the most vexing conversations with Kat, John finally went downstairs and prepared a tray with tea, milk, sugar and a plate of biscuits. Sherlock was still in the same position John had left him some minutes before. The detective snapped from his thoughts and smirked at John.

"Trouble in paradise?" he asked nonchalantly.

What could John do, honestly? He could only laugh. "Oh, just shut up; I'm feeling relieved. Poor girl," John said, shaking his head, and leaving the tray on the coffee table. He pushed Sherlock to the other side of the sofa, so that John could be next to the trunk. "Eat," he said, shoving the plate of biscuits on Sherlock's lap.

"Again with the eating?" Sherlock asked, trying to sound petulant, but not quite managing.

"Always," John said, trying to grin with a mouthful of biscuits. "So, let's get started, then. Is this trunk yours or Mycroft's?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. Maybe John was right. This could help.

"It was Mummy's. It was placed in my parents' room when I was a child. Near the foot of their bed," Sherlock sighed, looking intently at the trunk.

"Right, nice. It's beautiful; looks expensive. Is it a family thing?" John asked.

"I think so, yes," Sherlock answered, seeming lost in his own thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you so much for following this story and for the encouragement.

I've never published a story like this, it's thrilling to know you're waiting. I hope you're not disappointed, and that you enjoy this chapter!

Again, I have to thank my amazing beta and britpicker **foreverwholocked **for helping me with this. It wouldn't have been possible without her!

* * *

**CHAPTER 2**

**(Twenty-eight years earlier)**

Little Sherlock stood outside his parents' bedroom. He had the habit of peeking while his mother got ready for the parties their parents organized. He had always liked to see her combing her hair and applying make up. Her smiling gray eyes were even more beautiful in those days.

"Hey, mon fleur." she said, looking at his reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a black satin party dress, delicate high heels and a pearl necklace and earrings. She smiled at her little son. "Having trouble with your tie?"

Little Sherlock nodded and entered the bedroom, sitting on the trunk his mother kept in her bedroom. It was his favourite place to sit; it was where his mother talked to him, hugged him and kissed him every night before he went to bed. Mummy always said it was Grandma's trunk before, and that she was the one who sat on it when she was little. Sherlock always liked that trunk- maybe because he always loved Grandma and Mummy so much.

"What is it, darling? You look upset," she told him, still looking at him from the mirror, with a smile that could easily brighten the whole of Sussex. "I'll finish up here and straighten your tie, okay?"

Sherlock nodded again and stared at his own feet. They didn't quite reach the floor yet. He wasn't exactly a tall child, but he knew he would be tall someday. Father and Mummy were tall, and Mycroft was already quite tall for his age. He supposed one couldn't expect much height from a six-year-old.

Mummy approached him, still smiling and helped him with his little bow tie. Sherlock had always hated ties, and he always told his mother that he would never wear ties when he was a grown up. It was a matter of the greatest importance for him to tell everyone that ties were silly things and that he was always displeased to wear them.

"So... Is this about the party?" she asked, and he nodded. "I know you don't like it, but it's something we have to do, okay? It's for Father's work," she told him, patting his cheek. "I'm sure there will be other children too."

"Mummy!" Little Sherlock made a face. "I don't like children, they're all idiots!"

"Sherlock!" Mummy tried to give him a severe look. She not always managed. The truth was that Mummy was the only one who would understand her son. She knew she should not encourage such behaviour, but what could anyone expect of a child with a brain like his?

"Look, you can always observe the guests, don't you like doing that?" She asked, he nodded. "But don't make people embarrassed, okay?"

"I don't mean to make people angry," he said, looking at her with big wet eyes. "Can't I just stay in my room? I have some plants to catalogue!"

She smiled. Of course her little genius had research to do. "I'm sorry, dear, you can't. But you just have to stay downstairs for a while, I'll stay with you as much as I can, okay?" She smiled at him fondly. She probably knew that Sherlock would do anything for her. Not because she asked, but because he liked being near her as much as he could.

She ruffled his wild dark curls – another trait they both shared – and stood up, pulling him with her gently. "Ready? Let's go, then. Give me a kiss. Now come on, little man."

They left the bedroom hand in hand.

* * *

"So, who was the genius, then? Your mother or your father?" John asked.

Sherlock seemed confused. "What?"

"Well, I suppose one of them must have been a genius too. Two people can't produce a Sherlock and a Mycroft out of thin air!"

"Ah," Sherlock scowled, probably at the suggestion that him and Mycroft had something in common. "They were both very intelligent, if that's what you're asking. But Mummy was brilliant, she was a very talented pianist," he smiled fondly.

"And your mother was a _musician_? Wow. Not what I thought, not what I expected at all," John said seeming genuinely surprised.

"Yes, people must assume the sociopath had a terrible mother," Sherlock answered, coldly. "Well, I did not. She was... understanding."

What Sherlock did not tell John was that he and Mrs. Hudson were the people who reminded him most of his mum, the only people who knew him and tried to respect what he was; they weren't demanding and they didn't make fun of him. Sherlock would not say that to John, but it was true. Sherlock had to wait for nearly thirty years to be able to be himself around someone again. Having John living in Baker Street was the most freeing thing that had ever happened to him since those nights when he would sit on the trunk and talk to his mother about his insects and plants.

"Oi!" John slapped Sherlock's shoulder, snapping Sherlock out of his contemplation. "That was not what I meant, and you know it! I just thought she would have been a scientist, a biochemist, or something. And then there's Mycroft! Mycroft's mother was an artist... Sorry if I was surprised!" John giggled, and Sherlock tried very hard not to laugh with him. He didn't quite manage.

"Yes, when you put it like that... But Mycroft have always been a younger version of my father. Father was a diplomat, that's why we had those insufferable parties and I had to wear ties," he scowled.

"Your father was like Mycroft then? That's unsettling," John snorted. "So, you play the violin because of your mother?"

"You could say that. Her father played the violin, actually. That," Sherlock pointed at his violin with a shy smile, "was his violin. Mycroft and I play the piano, but I always preferred the violin, it's compact and mobile." _Like you, John_. This Sherlock didn't say.

"So, you are like her." John said, thoughtful.

Sherlock took a deep breath. _Sentiment, yes, sentiment. _The kind of sentiment which that trunk would probably drown him in. _Am I like Mummy? No, I couldn't be. How could I be so charming and sure of myself, how could I be so clever without scaring people off? Not quite like Mummy, no._

"Not quite. But I play the violin because of her, yes. And physically, yes. Wild hair, like she used to say, and pale skin and eyes."

When Sherlock noticed, John was smiling at him oddly. "What?"

"I hope there will be some baby photos in this trunk, because I'd really like to see that!" John laughed. Seeing his friend's outraged expression, John shook his head. "I'm serious, you must have been so cute, all big eyes and curly hair".

Sherlock smiled, surprisingly shy. "If one likes odd eyes, I suppose."

"_Odd_ eyes?" John asked. "Your eyes aren't odd, they are...," he trailed off and Sherlock decided to pay some attention to the tea set, his cheeks a bit flushed. "Your eyes are fine. Do you know what's odd? A head in the fridge. That's odd." John giggled, trying and succeeding in lightening the air between them.

Sherlock joined him gladly. "Well, where was I supposed to put it? Next time I'll put it in your bed!"

John rolled his eyes, but smiled. "Okay, ready to open it?" At Sherlock's nod, John opened the trunk with the key Mycroft had sent in an envelope. "I'll pick something," he said while trying to feel the contents of the trunk without looking. He didn't want to invade the family's privacy and he didn't want to direct Sherlock's stories to those he was most curious to know. But fate was on his side, because the first item was a small wooden sword. "Ah!" John said. "I know about this, your brother told me."

"Don't you and Mycroft have anything better to do on your dates?" Sherlock snapped.

"Aw, don't be jealous of our dates, Sherlock, just because your brother is so lovely," John mocked and Sherlock smiled. "And no, you git, he told me you wanted to be a pirate. He told me this when he gave me those files about Irene," he said, trying very hard not to remember Irene Adler and her strange ways.

"She's not dead, you know," Sherlock blurted, and seemed surprised by his own words. He started to think that his brain was really damaged. "I know you think she's dead and you and Mycroft lied to me to spare my _feelings_," he said the last word as if they were some sugar-free tea.

"Ah," John said. Of course. Of course he would save her. _Who wouldn't save their loved ones? You, John, saved yours the day after you two met. Why didn't you expect that? _John tried again very hard not to think about any of this. It wasn't any of his business, really. And if he didn't want Sherlock to meddle in his love life, the least he could do was do the same. _Well done, Irene. The one woman who mattered. _

"Are _you_ jealous?" Sherlock asked. "You are angry, you're always angry near Irene, or talking about her."

_Dear Lord in Heaven. Give John Watson some patience._ "I don't like her," John said with a forced calmness. "Never have. But what do I know? I'm just an ordinary bloke." _Exactly__._ John wasn't clever, he wasn't a puzzle, he wasn't Irene, and he wasn't Moriarty. Thank God for that. _Shut up, just shut up._ "Anyway, pirate then..."

"_You_ _are_ jealous. That's ridiculous," Sherlock said and regretted the moment the words left his mouth. _It's not what I meant_ – that Sherlock didn't say. _Are you jealous of her because she liked me __and not you, or are you jealous of me? Why would you be jealous of me?_ - this Sherlock didn't ask either.

"So, pirate...?" John said, handing the wooden sword to Sherlock and trying the control his anger. _Yes, it was ridiculous, thank you for your input, genius._ What John was thinking? _Take deep fucking breaths and soldier up, damn it_.

"John-"

"No," John snapped, because, _really_, one can only embarrass himself for a certain amount of time. "Leave it and tell me about the sword. Did you have a parrot?" John forced a smile. He'd be damned if he was going to let Irene spoil Sherlock's treatment. Once he was recovered he could travel the world looking for her and sod it. _Oh, just shut it already_.

"I wanted to find treasures and break the rules, why would I have a parrot?" Sherlock asked, confused.

* * *

**(Thirty-one years earlier)**

Mycroft knew normal children at his age were supposed to hate their younger siblings, but he also knew that normal rules didn't fit the Holmes family. The different phases of jealousy, the competition for the mother's attention, the dispute for presents were never part of his relationship with Sherlock.

From the moment the little boy with curly hair and ice-blue eyes started to walk and talk, Mycroft knew he and his brother would have much bigger problems than simple childish feuds.

But the differences didn't make young Mycroft resent his little brother. Even at young age, he knew he was a fortunate child. Mycroft was exactly what he wanted to be. An extraordinarily intelligent child, with straight A's at boarding school and a bright future planned ahead. He had always wanted to be like his dad, and he knew he would be. It was just a matter of time.

This certainty helped him to learn his role as the older brother of young Sherlock Holmes, the child who couldn't understand his own great intelligence.

Mycroft knew what he wanted to be, and he was fortunate for being designed for the exact role he wanted to have. Looking at little Sherlock while he ran up and down the family house, the older sibling was filled with the feeling that maybe the world as it was would never be enough for him. Maybe someday little Sherlock would have to invent his own place in it.

Collecting coins from all over the world always helped Mycroft to maintain his eyes on the future. He would be like his father and have meetings with all the most important people from all the most important countries. Siger Holmes, the head of the Holmes family, never once forgot to bring home the shiniest and most exotic coins he could find around the world.

But even if Mycroft would never say it, little Sherlock was the one who needed the coins the most. They were the perfect treasure to fit the end of the train of clues Mycroft planned for him. It was the perfect game for the siblings: Sherlock would have a puzzle to solve, would have to run up and down the house, and would have a treasure to find. And Mycroft would be saved from the legwork, since he used to leave it for the household to actually place the clues in their right spots.

Mycroft never placed his Christmas gifts for Sherlock under the tree. The little brother would find there only the first clue to find his hidden present, and the older he was, the faster he would get to it. For one of the family Christmases, Mycroft actually found the perfect present.

"Myc! This is a _ridiculous_ clue!" Three-year-old Sherlock whined sitting on the floor, beside the Christmas tree.

"So you know where is it?" Mycroft asked.

"Ovib... Obiu... " Sherlock tried. "Obliv...," he gritted his teeth.

"_Obviously?_" Mycroft helped.

"Yes, obviously," the little curly boy nodded. "It says 'It's where the pirate sleeps'."

"I see," Mycroft nodded. "And where is it?"

The little boy rolled his eyes, petulantly. "It's in the library! It's where all the pirates from the books are," he said, already turning in his heels.

"Mm-hm," Mycroft let out a dubious sound.

Sherlock stopped abruptly, turning back and narrowing his little eyes in the direction of his brother. "It's not in the library," he said suspiciously.

"Oh, is it not?" Mycroft asked.

"No, you never make any sounds when I find the right place," Sherlock sniffed.

Mycroft smiled a thin smile. People could be surprised by a three-year-old deducting his older brother's behaviour, but other people weren't siblings of Sherlock Holmes. "So where is it then?"

The little boy frowned and placed his hands on his tiny hips. "Pirates live in ships. There aren't ships here," he started.

"Good..." Mycroft nodded, with his mouth full of gingerbreads.

"They sleep in their bed. But nobody here who has a bed is a pirate," Sherlock tried. "Well, I want to be, but I'm not a pirate yet."

"And why is that?" Mycroft asked.

"Because I don't have a sword-," Sherlock paused with shiny big eyes. "It's a sword! And it's in my bed, because I am a pirate! And it's where I sleep," he shouted, already running up the stairs.

Mycroft hid his smile with his cup of tea.

* * *

John smiled fondly. "I'll tell you something, and you're not gonna like it. Mycroft actually helped you to find the perfect occupation."

Sherlock sulked. "He did not!"

"He did, you know. I think I like Mycroft better now," John said, uncertain.

"Well, I hope you're very happy together!"

"Stop that, you prat. It was a great gift; it's a nice little sword," John said, examining the toy.

"It was my grandmother's finding, actually. I remember I could smell her house's scent when I tore the wrapping paper, but I never told Mycroft that I knew," Sherlock sighed.

"So, pirate. Was it only because of the puzzles?"

"No, I just wanted to steal my brother's stupid coins," Sherlock giggled and John joined him. "I liked the puzzles, obviously. And pirates didn't have to wear ties. Everybody used ties, Mycroft, Father, the household, I used to hate it."

"You still hate it," John pointed out. "You must have driven the household insane," he shook his head. "I think I've always wanted to be a doctor and a soldier. When I think about it, Mycroft doesn't sound so strange, after all. I always knew what I wanted too. You too, but you had to invent your job, because you're Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant git."

"Mycroft grew up to be a controlling bastard," Sherlock scowled. "And of course you've always wanted to be the hero. Normally the weakest link of a broken home ends up being the addict and the strongest ends up being the hero. You and Harry are pretty obvious."

John didn't miss the hidden meaning of that sentence. Sherlock was an addict. What did that tell about Mycroft? John wouldn't ask. He sighed. "Heroes don't exist." John would never forget those lines.

_But you do, _Sherlock thought.

"So, let's move on, then. Ready for the next one?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. "Okay, let's see. Oh God, what's this?" John said, feeling something very strange inside the wooden trunk. "Is this a skull?" He asked and pulled the object out of the trunk. "Oh my God! You didn't!" John cried.

"Of course I didn't! He was like a family member!"

"He?" John asked, puzzled.

"Really, John, the family cat, obviously."

"You kept the skeleton of your family cat, Sherlock, that's not obvious," John sighed. "Well, I guess it is for you. So, did you hate him, so you decided to keep his bones to experiment on them?"

Sherlock frowned. "Of course not. I liked him very much. I just wanted to observe. And I only kept his skull, the rest is buried on my family's garden."

"Ah, okay then, what was his name?"

Sherlock grinned. "You're not going to believe me."

John frowned. "Try me."

"Sherrinford," Sherlock answered, trying not to giggle. "He was a very old cat, my mother had him since before marrying my father."

"Jesus Christ. Sherrinford Holmes, is it?" John giggled. "You guys know how to cause an impression, I'll give you that," he shook his head, fondly. "Sherrinford, the older brother of Mycroft and Sherlock."

"Don't be an idiot, he was a cat, he was not my brother. Although, I do like him better than I like Mycroft, despite the fact that he is, in fact, a cat that has been dead for almost thirty years," Sherlock said.


	3. Chapter 3

Again, thank you for the encouragement and for following this story! I hope you enjoy, even if I only update once a week, it's impossible for me to update quicker, I apologize ):

And I always have to thank my amazing beta and britpicker **foreverwholocked**.

* * *

**CHAPTER 3**

**(Twenty-seven years earlier)**

Sherrinford was a grey furry cat that Violet Holmes got as a present even before she was exactly a 'Holmes'. Her mother, Emily, used to say that having the feline around would help Violet in the new and empty mansion, while she didn't have any kids to fill the rooms with joy and laughter.

By the time Mycroft was born, Sherrinford would have been the perfect pet for a child. He was full of energy, chasing the birds on the trees of the Holmes' gardens and purring while sitting or laying in his own cushion on the sofa. But Mycroft wasn't the kind of child who would run around after a cat, and the fluffy pet had to wait until little Sherlock Holmes arrived in the family.

Despite his age, Sherrinford did what he could to keep up with the younger Holmes. He would run around after the little curly boy while he collected his plants and insects outside the big house, and the two of them would always be seen together in the library. Sherlock with some thick chemistry volume and Sherrinford purring or sleeping on the boy's lap.

Not rarely, the grey cat would give up his fluffy cushion in the living room to be around Sherlock in his room, curled on his bed. The cat even tried to stick around when Sherlock was learning to play the violin. But he didn't always manage to.

"Sherrinford doesn't like my violin very much," little Sherlock said to his mum on an afternoon, after his violin tutoring.

"His hearing is too sensitive, dear, sometimes it bothers him," Violet answered his little son while walking with him through her favourite garden path.

"I know, I read it in that book about mammals," Sherlock was crouched, searching for a specific species of ants. "But he's old, he should be deaf by now," he said, matter-of-factly.

"Sherlock! You should be happy the poor thing isn't deaf, not the other way around!" Violet reprimanded.

"I know," he said while trapping the poor ants in a jar. "He's a silly cat. I like him," he smiled his biggest smile that lightened his eyes.

Violet smiled back. "I know, love, he likes you very much too."

* * *

John was laughing. "You said you liked the cat and called him silly. I was called an idiot the day after we met, I see a pattern."

Sherlock laughed too. "He was a nice a cat. He didn't mind my experiments and was silent most of the time. His only fault was that he didn't like my violin."

John shook his head. "Poor cat, I imagine what was like when you were learning. It must've been hellish!"

"It was not! I've always played quite well."

"Yes, yes, okay. Anyway, I'm starting to like Sherrinford too. He reminds me of myself," John giggled.

"What? Why?"

"He was silent, he ran around after you while you did your mad things, he accepted your experiments, which by the way, I would like best if they were still about plants and bugs. Sherrinford wouldn't like the head in the fridge, I'm sure," John giggled.

"Oh hell, again with the head?!"

"A bloody head, Sherlock! Without any warning! I was looking for something edible!" John shook his head.

"I didn't suggest that you should eat the head! Did I?"

John stopped, dumbfounded. _Really, why would anyone argue with Sherlock Holmes?_ John must be really an idiot. He did the only thing he could. He laughed. And Sherlock joined him.

"All right, I give up! Come on, tell me about how poor Sherrinford ended up in your trunk," John sighed.

* * *

**(Twenty-six years earlier)**

Sherrinford's death wasn't a surprise for the Holmes family. The cat had had a long life and even Sherlock was already expecting it. Maybe his readings about the animal's body and functions had helped him to understand the process of the pet's death. The boy knew Sherrinford was already very old and on the day he died, Sherlock tried not to cry a single tear. He knew Mummy would tell him that it was alright to cry, but he knew it wasn't logical, crying was not going to bring Sherrinford back. Sherlock and Violet Holmes buried the cat on the garden where Sherlock and Sherrinford used to run together.

It wasn't until four years after the cat's death that Sherlock let himself cry. But then he had missed much more. Right after his parent's death and Mycroft's decision that he was going to Harrow, Sherlock let himself remember his memories from his house, his mother and the little Sherrinford. Sherlock was completely alone in the universe, without his parents, his house, his brother and his beloved cat.

Packing his things to leave for Harrow, Sherlock thought of the one thing he could still take with him. Without too much trouble, he unburied and cleaned the skull of his little friend, and packed it with his books and journals. For the endless months and years of boring study and classmates, Sherrinford would always be someone Sherlock could talk to and his skull reminded the boy that life wasn't always so difficult.

* * *

"Sentiment," Sherlock said, simply, running his fingers over the small skull.

John sighed. Sometimes he wished it was easier to talk to Sherlock about these sorts of things, but he wasn't the best in it, and Sherlock definitely was even worse. "I think we should put him on the mantle."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. "Why?"

"Well, it's where you put the skull friends, isn't it?"

Sherlock smiled and stood up to place Sherrinford on the mantle. "I hope Mrs. Hudson don't take it."

"I hope you don't put my skull there someday," John snorted.

Sherlock looked at John as if he were contemplating it.

"Oh God, now I'm just giving you ideas!" John stood up. "I'm making more tea, do you want some?"

Sherlock shook his head, but followed John to the kitchen. The doctor put the kettle on and leaned on the counter. Sherlock was arranging some Petri dishes, clearly not doing anything important, just trying to pretend he wasn't in need of John's company.

"So, do you want to talk about your parents?" John asked, already knowing the answer.

"No," Sherlock answered, without looking up. A long moment passed until he spoke again, John was already filing his mug with the hot water. "Not today," Sherlock said with a weak voice and still without looking at John.

"Okay, I understand." And John did, he really did. Sherlock had a lot to think about already, and a lot to organize inside his head; maybe that subject would be too much for him to handle. John tried to slightly change the subject. "So Harrow then. Pretty normal for a posh sod like you. I would have said Eton," John smiled.

Sherlock scowled. "Mycroft went to Eton, he is the posh one. I was the first Holmes in a very long time who didn't go there. I didn't even want to go to boarding school, but after my parents died, Mycroft didn't know what to do with me, and I had to stay within his reach, so he let me choose between Eton and Harrow. They were very proud of having a Holmes amongst their pupils. At least for the first week," he snorted.

"Much trouble at Harrow?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock smiled. "Quite. The Headmaster probably had my brother's number on his speed dial."

"Proud, are we?"

Sherlock shuddered. "I survived."

"Any friends?" John asked, fearing the answer. Not that he could demand anything. He had been a Rugby player, had plenty of friends in school. He couldn't imagine any teenager capable of understanding and dealing with Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock shuddered again. "Those boys were quite tedious."

"Bullies?" John asked, because he couldn't not ask. Yes, 'healer', he didn't bother denying his protectiveness concerning Sherlock. _Hero complex_, _obsession with picking up strays_. John had already heard all of them.

Sherlock snorted. "Why? Are you going to hunt them all? You, the captain of the rugby team?"

"Possibly. Who knows?" John smiled. "So, bullies?"

Sherlock shuddered and paced into the living room. "You wouldn't have the time to chase that many."

John felt his stomach sunk. He had expected it, but listening to Sherlock admit such a thing wasn't at all easy for John. He had always been protective with the people he cared about, but with Sherlock he was even more. John wished he had gone to Harrow, he wished he could have been Sherlock's friend from the beginning so he didn't have to spent so many years alone. John was being ridiculous, he knew. But just for a second, he wished he could really chase all the bullies away. "Did they beat you?" John asked, joining Sherlock on the sofa again.

"John, it doesn't matter," Sherlock said, but his expression wasn't as indifferent as he wanted it to be.

"No, it doesn't matter, so tell me. Did. They. Beat. You?" John emphasised each word with the intonation of an angry parent.

"Of course!" Sherlock blurted. "Wouldn't you beat the freakish skinny kid, who was smarter than the teachers and didn't have any parents?" Sherlock snapped.

"No," John mumbled under his breath. "I wouldn't."

"Well. Too bad the Harrow boys weren't all like you, isn't it?"

"Why didn't Mycroft do anything? He could have kidnapped them, or threatened the shit out of those stupid kids. He kidnapped me, after all!" John was angry. He was close to calling Mycroft to ask him why. But suddenly he didn't need to. One glance at Sherlock and knew. "You never told him," he said quietly. "You never told anyone."

Sherlock shrugged. "Why would I tell anyone? It wouldn't make any difference."

"But they hit you!"

"Damn it, John, it doesn't matter!" Sherlock shouted. "I can take care of myself now."

John snorted. "Oh, can you?"

"Yes. And I have a friend who always have my back," his voice softened, and he smiled. "Now, come on, pick something out of that stupid trunk! This conversation is getting so dull, I'm going to start shooting the walls!"

John rolled his eyes. _Sherlock Holmes, always the dramatic_. "Okay, let's see, then," he said, and the two of them went back to their places on the sofa. John started feeling some items inside the trunk. He picked a small wooden box. "Do you want me to open it?"

Sherlock froze, staring at the box. That simple box was almost causing a short circuit in his Mind Palace. After a moment, he snatched the box from John and opened it.

"It's empty; I don't understand," John said.

Sherlock snorted, sounding a little off. "How could you?" His voice was strained, and he pulled a tiny string on the bottom of the box, revealing a false bottom and the contents of the real one. Inside the box were two shiny needles, a syringe and a bottle with a transparent liquid together with a picture. It wouldn't take a genius to know what that mean.

"Oh, God, I fucking hate your brother!" John snapped, yanking the needles, the syringe and the cocaine from the box.

"John, it's hardly efficient to flush this. I could get my hands on more cocaine if I wanted to, you know," Sherlock said, nonchalantly.

"Not living with me, you couldn't," John said. "I'd be damned if I'd let you anywhere near this!" He shouted, heading to the bathroom to dispose what he had just found.

It was the first time John had been in the presence of Sherlock Holmes and his drug of choice. John knew drug addiction well enough to know that a simple finding like the one that had just happened could destroy months and years of recovery, especially in the state of mind Sherlock was. Maybe the stupid genius would think the drug could be a great help to his confusion. He could even listen to the arguments Sherlock would use on his own head.

'_I'll use it just once._' '_I'm not an addict_.' '_I'll stop when my brain is functioning properly_.' All of them some distortion of the same old lines he had listened from Harry too many damn times.

John didn't know these things only as a doctor, but also from his own experience with gambling and with the way he avoided cards to that very day. He knew as a son and brother of chronic alcoholics, and as a friend who had watched too many of his own brothers in arms destroying their own bodies with alcohol to get through the memories of the war.

John took a deep breath and remembered that very first day in Baker Street when he confronted Lestrade about the drugs bust. John had felt helpless and lost, like he had missed something very important. He didn't like that feeling at all. He was a man of action, he took matters into his own hands, he didn't wait for anybody to tell him anything.

At least he didn't until a certain consulting detective winked at him one afternoon and changed everything. Sherlock always made everybody feel helpless. It was inevitable. Nobody was in his league, it was a fact. But John had never liked it. He didn't like being left behind on crime scenes, or when Sherlock chased criminals by himself. But there was nothing that could make him feel more helpless than the cocaine. John was already too far from Sherlock's mind to risk letting it get in the way. The very thought of that brilliant man finding himself helpless because of chemicals made John shiver. _Yes, call him healer if you want, call it hero complex, call it obsession with strays_.

John knew better.

John knew exactly why: _care_.

* * *

In the living room, Sherlock wasn't quite conscious of the time John was taking in the loo. If the doctor was worried about the effect of the bottle of cocaine, he would be even more worried if he knew what that photo meant. John, in his hurry to get rid of the drug, didn't even pay attention at the two people smiling – their body language revealing much more than any kiss or hand holding would. At least for someone who knew Sherlock Holmes.

_Victor. _Victor Trevor.

* * *

**Oh and I apologize for the shorter chapter, but I wanted to divide the events concerning the finding of the cocaine bottle. Yep, I'm a terrible human being, I'm sorry ): (No, I'm not sorry, I'm just pretending. Call me high-functional sociopath, if you like (;)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey, there! Thank you so much for following!**

**As always, I have to thank my fantastic beta foreverwholocked for helping me with the plot, the language and with everything, really. Without her, this wouldn't be possible.**

**Now, feelings ahead!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 4**

_Victor. _Victor Trevor.

Sherlock had felt many things about that boy.

The satisfaction of finally having a friend to listen to his deductions; the rush of having someone to share the dose with. He had felt many, many things. Lust was one of them, the relief of finally being able to engage in a relationship-more-like-an-acquaintance with someone, just to prove to himself that he was not a freak – that if he was alone most of the time, it was because he had chosen to do so.

But he had never felt the guilt he was feeling at that moment. No, he was Sherlock Holmes, he wasn't the type to let a guilty conscious get the best of him. _So why now?_ He'd like to think that his own brain was so confused that he was getting mixed signals, but he knew better than that. He knew exactly why his damaged conscious had chosen that moment to get him.

_John_.

Sherlock had felt many things because of Victor. Maybe he had even felt something _for_ him. But love was never one of them, and he had never felt any shred of guilt about the way he had treated him. For many motives. But first, and most important, because he really didn't believe such thing as love existed. He really didn't. For him, it was all an invention that ordinary people would hold on to in order to escape their pathetic lives.

The body was, indeed, transport, but sex could be good, and that Sherlock could understand – despite of normally preferring not to risk it – but love and emotions had never fitted on Sherlock's schedule. Why let some chemical reactions make him feel like a slave of someone? He had the cocaine, and he used it to feed his mind. He didn't need anything else.

So, when Victor had showed such inclinations, Sherlock found himself being even more cruel than he was with other people. Of course he knew that leaving Victor behind after being invited to his family house was more than a bit not good. Maybe some psychobabble about fear and things like that could make sense to normal people, but not for Sherlock.

Especially not now.

He had had to wait many years until an ex-army doctor called him 'brilliant' and 'amazing', shot a man to save his life, and accept to be his partner without any demands. _No, that wasn't right. John actually made many demands._ He demanded that Sherlock ate. He demanded that Sherlock drunk 'his damn tea'. He demanded that Sherlock took care of his own body. He demanded to know about the bullies of twenty years ago, just because he couldn't accept the fact that someone had hit him at some point in his life. Those were the demands John made.

_John_.

Sherlock really had to wait until now to feel guilty because only now he could have any idea of what Victor was talking about more than ten years ago. He couldn't have known. Not then when he was just a young man, without a care in the world, only worried about his own deductions, the crimes, the puzzles and the next hit. He couldn't have. He didn't know.

How could he?

Victor wasn't John. Their months together as sort-of-friends couldn't even begin to be compared to the life he had with John. _No, he couldn't compare, it would be of no use._

_Nobody was like John Watson_. It was something that he had deduced long ago.

He couldn't have known anything about that kind of sentiment. He simply didn't know. And for Sherlock Holmes to admit that he didn't know something at any point in time was hard.

He knew about caring now. Mycroft was right when he said it wasn't an advantage, maybe he was right and now he was part of the losing side, but the fact was that now he knew.

That stupid guilt was aching in his head, his own thoughts telling him that maybe – just maybe – if Victor had felt anything near what John and Sherlock shared as friends, or what Sherlock felt for John and never admitted; he hadn't deserved what Sherlock had done.

Stupid head injury, _stupid brain, stupid__!_ _He didn't have time for this, for sentiment, for guilt! _

What could he do now? _That was illogic and idiotic, he couldn't do anything._ He couldn't rewind any of the things that stupid wooden trunk was making him relive. _Why does it matter now?_

Sherlock was feeling mentally ill. He didn't know what was real pain and what was guilt.

John snapped Sherlock from his thoughts. "Look at me, just look at me," he was trying to measure Sherlock's eyes responses while holding the detective gently by the neck.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, trying to calm his own thoughts, concentrating on the warmth of John's hand.

"I'll be the one deciding that. Are you in _any_ pain? Feeling nauseous?" John asked, while feeling Sherlock's pulse. "Don't close your eyes."

Sherlock knew he was physically fine, but his mind was such a mess, and John's touch was so soothing that he allowed himself to enjoy the attention he was getting. Just for a tiny split of second, he would look into those deep blue eyes and confirm that _he did know now_. Everything he hadn't known about sentiment, he knew now. It was hard, and confusing, it was messy and it made his brain burn like one of Dante's circles of hell, but it was data that he had now.

"Sherlock?" John asked again.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just too much brain work," Sherlock said, dismissing John with one of those petulant waves of his hand. When Sherlock calmed his mind, John was sitting beside him, with a light tremor on his left hand, breathing hard. Tiny drops of sweat on his forehead. "John."

"Don't," John said, rubbing his forehead with his right hand. Probably now that John knew that Sherlock was physically fine, his own body felt was the time to fail. _Fantastic_. John took deep breaths and closed and opened his left hand several times. Before he could even react, he felt Sherlock's hand on his right one.

"This is about the cocaine," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question. "I would take it again, you know," he told him, feeling the tension on John's hand.

"Sherlock-"

"No, just listen. I would. You wouldn't believe if I told you I wouldn't, you know it's the truth, but," he sighed, "I would try not to do it because I know you'd..." he trailed off. "I don't know if it matters, but I would try."

John wished he could answer, but he couldn't. Of course it mattered. This was as near as anyone could get to Sherlock, to make him think before doing something stupid. Sherlock was right – of course he was – John would never believe him if he said he wouldn't do it. John knew he would, that he wouldn't give up on anything because of anyone, that he only followed his own brain. John had learned to accept that. Sherlock was who he was and John wasn't sure he could give up on any of the parts attached to the mad bastard.

John snapped from his thoughts when Sherlock let go of his hand.

"I know it was the photo." John said after a moment, making an effort to look at the detective, who seemed surprised. John snorted. "Just because you think I'm an idiot it doesn't mean I'm actually stupid, you know. You wouldn't show such concern about the cocaine. It must be something you don't quite know how to deal with."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Are you my therapist now?"

"It's not psychology, it's the science of deduction. You should try some time; there's a website," John said, smiling, while Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So. A hiding place for two needles and a picture of two young men. One of them must be you. Are you going to show me?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Right," John said, ready to drop the subject. He knew better than to try to force any conversation with Sherlock.

"Victor Trevor. Cambridge," Sherlock said, simply.

"Okay," John nodded. "Boyfriend?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Again – I'm not stupid. Girlfriends aren't your area, and I'm assuming you weren't born married to your work." John ignored the tightening feeling in his chest. It wasn't the first time he felt as if he had arrived in Sherlock's life too late. But he couldn't whine now, it wasn't the time. "So, boyfriend?"

Sherlock winced. "Not quite."

"Was he a prick?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Protective today, are we?" John gave him his Captain Watson stare. "Nothing like that. He didn't OD either, if that's what you're going to ask next," he said. "Yes, I am the consulting detective, I know you are alternating between Captain and Doctor."

"So you were the prick, then," John said, not asking. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "He liked you, but you didn't like him, or he liked you, and you told him he was being ridiculous, that you didn't do sentiment," John concluded.

Sherlock was still with his eyes narrowed.

John snorted. "Yeah, I figured. It happens." _… quite a lot_._ Yep, been there, done that. Molly sends her regards too_. John stood up, stretching his back.

"What is this about?" Sherlock asked confused. He had the sensation that he was missing something, and he didn't like it.

"I'm going to bed. And you are going too," John said, placing the wooden sword and the wooden box back inside the trunk and locking it.

"I am a sociopath, this shouldn't be news to you." Sherlock insisted.

John rolled his eyes. "And here I was, thinking you hated repeating yourself," he sighed. "Come on, you're going to bed now, because I'm going to bed and I'm not leaving you here."

Sherlock let the issue go. He didn't know what to make of John's reaction. "Are you going to bed with me? People might talk," Sherlock smirked.

"Ha-ha. No," John said, pulling Sherlock on his feet and shoving him in the direction of the bedroom. "Goodnight, sleep tight, and no fucking violin. Respect poor Sherrinford."

"Fine! But I'm not tired, I'll be bored to death," Sherlock whined. Yes, he wouldn't admit it, but he whined.

"Oh for Fuck's sake!"

"Language, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Try to come up with new plans to murder Anderson and get away with it or something," John said, already going upstairs.

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Brilliant, John!"

* * *

_**(Thirteen years earlier)**_

"_We don't have to be sneaky about it," Victor told him, while they walked to the stables of his family manor._

_Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."_

"_We don't have to hide anything. I'm pretty sure my parents are aware of what's happening here."_

"_And what, pray tell, is happening?" Sherlock asked, annoyed, already feeling the need of a new hit to cure the boredom of that weekend. _

"_Between us! I'm talking about us being together!" Victor exclaimed._

"_Together? We are not-"_

"_Don't! Don't deny it. Who else would you be with?"_

"_By myself, of course," Sherlock answered, nonchalantly. He really didn't know what Victor was going on about, but he was certain that it was part of a conspiracy to bore him to the bones. Seeing the expression his friend was making, Sherlock grew even more impatient. "I have no idea why are you being so dull, Victor. Really, this sentimentality doesn't suit you."_

"_How would you know?! How would you know about feeling anything?" Victor asked, running a hand through his hair._

"_Indeed." _

"_You're such a coward," Victor said, in disbelief. "We keep each other's company, we have fun together, we like each other. You are just a scared child."_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, thank you for your psychoanalysis," he said, lighting a cigarette. "Please, don't waste your time reading too much into it. We have sex and do cocaine – _that's _what we do."_

"_Is that all that it is? Is that all that you feel?" Victor asked, outraged. _

"Feel_?" Sherlock repeated, as if the word was far too unpleasant for him to bear. "You're quite delusional today. What was it? Are you feeling particularly touched by the __surroundings__?"_

"_Are you trying to convince me that everybody is right about you? Are you really this terrible abnormality that can't connect to anyone? Because that's what you sound like!"_

_Sherlock tried to mask the hurt of listening to those words behind the cold he could already notice rise in his chest. "I'm so glad you figured it out."_

"_I didn't, damn it," Victor rubbed his face with his shaking hands. "I just want us to be together."_

_Sherlock snorted. "How very boring of you. Now, please, be even more obvious and tell me one of those nonsenses! Tell me that you love me, that would be perfect," he mocked, without even realizing the line he had crossed. _

_Victor stood still for a moment, looking at the horses and taking in the sight. He probably knew that this day was coming. He probably had known since the very first day he had admitted to himself that, of all people, he had let himself be dragged along by the obnoxious, but captivating Sherlock Holmes. He knew what had been his mistake all along. Sherlock had fallen in love with the needles. Victor had fallen in love with a completely different thing. _

"_I do, I actually do," Victor confessed, without looking at Sherlock. He wasn't sure he could do this looking into those eyes._

"_I thought you were cleverer than that," Sherlock sighed, visibly annoyed. "I don't even know why we are having this conversation. It's pointless. I'm going back to London."_

_Victor would like to say he didn't know what hit him, but he did know. A whirlwind with grey eyes._

* * *

**(This last bit is in italics because it's something Sherlock is remembering only. He didn't tell John about it.)**

**That was another short chapter, I suck in dividing the story, guys, I'm sorry. I hope you're not too disappointed! I think the next one will be longer, anyway! (:**


	5. Chapter 5

Hey, guys!

I'm speeding up the updating, because I have the text finished and already edited, so I'll finish posting everything this week! More 3 chapters to go!

As always, I have to thank my lovely beta **foreverwholocked**. And thanks for following this story (:

Some slightly uncomfortable memories for Sherlock ahead!

* * *

**CHAPTER 5**

The next day, John arrived home from the clinic after a boring day of several cases of flu. Sherlock was sprawled on the floor, studying what looked like a hundred case files spread around him. Only a dweller of 221B Baker Street could see the beauty in that scene. John smiled to himself before returning to his doctor mode. He knew he couldn't ease his attention on Sherlock's health at the moment, even if that would mean being the _boring_ John.

"How did you get those files?" he asked. "And can't you just solve one crime at a time? You ought to start slowly, you know? And yesterday you got pretty worked up," he said, even if he knew it wouldn't make any damn difference.

"Hm? Lestrade had them sent to me. I didn't leave the flat," Sherlock answered, annoyed beyond words, in that particular petulant way that only he could sustain. "You agreed I could start solving cold cases."

"Me? Oh, let me guess: Hardly your fault if I wasn't at home when you decided to talk to me."

Sherlock finally looked up from the files and smiled one of those smiles. _Damn him_. "Indeed."

"I'm starting to think you do this on purpose. I'll have to ask Mycroft to send me the surveillance footage he has on us," he snorted. "Is there audio on them?" He asked, clearly disturbed, making Sherlock let out a chuckle. "Oh, my God! Your brother is evil," he finally said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Oh, please, as if you would dismiss the chance to spy on me to know if I'm eating or some dull thing like that," Sherlock replied.

"I have Mrs Hudson, she spies for me and forces you to eat. More efficient than any of your brother's minions," John said, heading for the kitchen. "I'm ordering takeaway, and you are eating something, in case you have some delusional doubt about it," he smiled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Really, sometimes John's mother hen behaviour was maddening._

When the food arrived, Sherlock was still on the floor, with his back leaned on the sofa, where John sat with his plate. He placed Sherlock's on the coffee table, with a solid 'eat', and ate while peeking at some of the files and crime scene photos spread on the floor. With a smirk he saw Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and text someone – probably Lestrade, telling him how utterly _boring_ all that hundred of crimes were and how he had solved them in one afternoon. John's smirk turned into a full grin while he watched Sherlock eating without any complaint. Out of nowhere, Sherlock spoke.

"Sebastian Wilkes."

"Sorry?" John asked, confused.

"Sebastian Wilkes, John, do keep up," Sherlock snapped, with a mouthful of noodles.

"You know that I can't _actually_ read your thoughts, right?" John thought about it for a moment. The name was familiar. Maybe a case. Oh. "That arrogant bastard from the Blind Banker case? What about him?"

"Yes, that _arrogant bastard_. You never asked me about our acquaintance. Why?"

"Dunno," John shrugged. "He is an arse, I didn't think you would tell me anything."

"He was one of my dealers in Cambridge," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

John dropped his fork on his plate and waited for the story. That couldn't be the end of it.

"When Mycroft cut off my funds, I decided to blackmail Sebastian so I wouldn't have to pay for my supplies," the detective started. "I would have told you this much If you had asked me then. Maybe. Possibly. Probably not."

"Thanks? I guess," John said, uncertain. "What happened?"

"Ah," Sherlock sighed. "See, what I wouldn't have told you is that it didn't end up at all as I expected. I was not at my best shape, to say the least. And the blackmail wasn't efficient. Rich people have the incredible power of making all kind of things go away."

"Right," John said, just to get rid of the knot that was forming in his throat. He wished he didn't knew where this was going. _Abuse_, probably. _Violence_. He knew the type of bloke Wilkes was – rich and feared –, thinking he could order people around. And he could only imagine the anger of a bloke like that being played by an even more arrogant twenty-something-year-old Sherlock Holmes. "So,..."

"Sex," Sherlock answered the question that hadn't been asked. "That was our new... agreement."

"_Agreement?_" John asked, startled. He had already placed his plate of unfinished food on the coffee table. It would have been too much to expect that Sherlock would wait until he had finished eating before saying something like that. And John frankly didn't know when he would be able to eat again.

"I don't remember much," Sherlock said, looking straight down at his own empty (to John's silent relief) plate.

"Did you delete it?" _Or were you high and that bastard had sex with you anyway? _John knew that Sherlock didn't need complete sentences to understand anything.

"No, I didn't. I've never remembered enough to be deleted," he answered, surprisingly quietly.

"Physical evidence can't be deleted," John said, very low, more to himself than to Sherlock, just to help his own thoughts. "Jesus...," he stood up, without having any clear idea of what to do. He was angry. He knew it was irrational, but he was angry. He knew that it wasn't about him, it was about Sherlock, something he was saying and that couldn't be easy, but John couldn't help the sudden reaction he was having. "I hope he never crosses my way again," he said, very calm and steady, looking through the window.

"It's fine," Sherlock said, more collected than a minute before.

"Yeah, I know you think it is," the doctor said. "But I won't think twice if I see him again," he sighed quietly, not confessing anything, just stating the obvious.

"Well, I'll bail you out. Try not to kill him. But if you can't help it, I know plenty of foolproof ways to dispose a body," Sherlock chuckled.

"I know." Finally looking at Sherlock eyes, he asked: "Why are you telling me now?"

"I...," the detective frowned. "I really don't know. That small box had much more than needles and a picture in it."

"Memories," John concluded and Sherlock nodded. "That's why you are confused. I'm sorry if the trunk wasn't the best idea. We can send it back."

"No," Sherlock said, looking vaguely to the fireplace. "Yesterday I could store many memories again, they made sense. If I can make sense of everything, I'll be able to organize my Mind Palace again."

John nodded. "So, you didn't forget anything."

"I'm finding that it's quite the opposite, actually. I didn't lose the memories, at least not in the way you were thinking. They just aren't in their right places," he explained. "I thought maybe I could think to organize it alone, but these memories...," he trailed off. "I don't know how to..."

"I understand," John said. And he did. John could understand that memories weren't just facts jammed in Sherlock's brain like all the scientific and practical data he had. When they were revealed, they revealed not only the facts that had happened, but also all the emotions included. And John knew Sherlock wasn't good at that.

"I have to do this; I can't have my brain disorganized and risk being hit with sudden unwanted memories, John," Sherlock seemed quite small and afraid, and it made John's chest suddenly tight. "When I tell you it's easier, so if you could... help me..."

John actually rolled his eyes and walked over Sherlock, offering one hand to help him stand up. "Can you think of any time that you needed my help and I refused to?"

Sherlock stood up and smiled, throwing himself on his back on the couch. "Well, there was that time you didn't want to observe the larvae of that queen bee in its cell with me," he pointed. He most definitely wasn't pouting.

John sighed. "I wasn't with you that day, you were in your family house, you nutter."

Sherlock seemed annoyed. "That's exactly what I said."

"Just shut up," John said, leaving Sherlock sprawled on the sofa and heading to his room. "I'm going to change, than make some tea, so we can go through the trunk of memories."

"I hope that's not a title for a post on that inaccurate blog of yours", Sherlock shouted from the sofa.

"Oh, piss off!"

* * *

John closed the door and sat on the bed for a moment. He was still trying to suppress his anger after discovering the truth about Sebastian Wilkes. He tried very hard not to let his imagination come up with scenarios in which Sherlock might have been so high that he wouldn't be able the defend himself from anything. He tried very hard not to think about rape, and he tried even harder not to think about the helplessness that Sherlock might have felt after regaining his senses.

Who would believe him? And even worse: _who would care?_ Not for the first time, John thought about how Mycroft must feel out of his depth dealing with Sherlock.

John couldn't shake these thoughts easily. He knew he had grown quite protective of Sherlock, that wasn't news to him, nor to Sherlock himself, but he often felt surprised with how ill those kind of things made him feel.

Sherlock was a difficult man – no doubt there – but extraordinary, and John didn't know how to deal with the idea of someone trying to hurt him. _Actually, he knew very well how to deal with it_. He wanted to hurt every single one of them back, even if he had to die doing this. Moriarty and the pool had been enough to prove this to him and to Sherlock.

After discovering so much in those past two days, John could almost understand Sherlock's behaviour toward sex and relationships. John himself couldn't say he had had the best experiences, but all Sherlock had told him helped to make sense of a guy that gave up feeling sexual pleasure because his last experiences had to do with cocaine and Sebastian Wilkes.

John knew that everything in Sherlock's life was focused on the Work; the Work in which he wasn't only good, he was the best and the only one in the world. The Work that had allowed him to sit in front of Sebastian years later and maintain his dignity while that arrogant sod babbled about how much of a freak Sherlock was in Uni and how much everyone hated him.

_'Friend'_.

_'Friend?'_ - And John wished now he had thrown a punch to wipe off that mocking expression from that bloke's face.

_'Colleague'_.

Friend! _I should have said_. _Bodyguard_, if he needs._ I buy him milk and beans and honey_, if he asks. Yes, friend. _I should have said_. He's capable of having a friend. In fact, _he's capable of having much more than that_. _You, Mr. Wilkes, couldn't know less about Sherlock_.

And to think that not much time ago, John had nearly punched Sherlock in the face when the detective had said that he didn't have friends. And he was drugged and afraid.

_I just stood there and denied the most clear truth in the world._ Sherlock had said it himself: _I'm an idiot._

Why did Sherlock accepted that stupid job anyway? He couldn't have known it would be so interesting from the email.

_Oh._

_Because you, John, had been nagging about money all that morning. Damn it._

John couldn't really help feeling responsible. It was something that filled him constantly, it had to do with the helplessness of living with Sherlock, but being so far away of his mind. Sherlock was an island, he always would be, partly because he behaved like that, but mostly because nobody could understand completely the amount of knowledge a single man could store.

For the first time, John felt relieved that Sherlock was able to delete things. Not because things were useless – _frankly, he could have made an effort to remember the fucking solar system!_ - but because probably remembering it all with the scrutiny that was natural to him would be overwhelming.

Certainly deleting things wasn't only a process to sharpen his Work, but also a mean Sherlock had to protect his own self.

And certainly, if this time John could help him to protect his mind, than he would gladly do it.

* * *

Not for the first time since John had moved in to Baker Street, Sherlock felt relieved that his friend was such a quiet and understanding man. When they first met, even if Sherlock could deduce all the facts about his life, he couldn't have foreseen that John would fit so perfectly in his every day life.

Sherlock wasn't used to it; he was used to being alone. And even if John pitied him for being alone through adolescence and twenties, Sherlock hadn't mind that much. _People were so awfully boring and infuriatingly loud_ – Sherlock couldn't stand many of them. In fact, for some time, he couldn't stand anyone.

But then John happened.

John that wasn't at all loud, nor a babbler. John, who could fully help without saying a single word. John, who never forced him into chit chat. Sherlock knew that was the reason why John was so soothing to him. That's why one day, out of nowhere, Sherlock found himself babbling to John even when he wasn't there. And it wasn't as if he didn't notice. Oh, he did. He did notice very well. But the flat had John's presence all around, even when he wasn't in it. And sometimes, only talking to him would help Sherlock to think properly.

That's what John really was. A conductor of light allowing Sherlock to be even more brilliant.

The eye of the hurricane that was his mind most of the time.

The touchstone.


	6. Chapter 6

As ever, I must thank my **fantastic** beta/britpicker/cheerleader foreverwholocked, my just _because_.

Oh, and for the next chapters, I must repeat that Sherlock's adolescence here is highly influenced by Saving Sherlock Holmes (it's on ao3). This work is basically my thought about young Sherlock, and I made some clear references to it. So, if you haven't read it yet, you must correct that mistake soon!

* * *

**CHAPTER 6**

John brought the tray with tea and biscuits and placed it on the coffee table, sitting on the sofa beside Sherlock, in the same way they had sat the night before. "So, ready? Can I meddle in your things again?"

Sherlock nodded. John opened the trunk again and felt some notebooks, pulling two out of the trunk. One looked older than the other. One of them was a notebook of unlined paper, most filled with drawings and sketches, and the other looked like a notebook from one of the classes in Harrow. From the latter, John watched a sheet of paper folded in two fall on the floor. He grabbed it, but was already impressed by the sketches in the older notebook.

It took some time for him to realize that he was browsing through something without its owner's consent. When he looked up, Sherlock was watching him closely, with an amused expression on his face. "Sorry, these are very good. Are these yours?"

"Obviously."

"They aren't signed," John said, now perusing through the notebook shamelessly.

"They aren't artistic, John. They are an experiment... Of sorts," Sherlock said, also looking at the drawings. They were mostly plants, insects and animals. "I was trying to memorize the details of each species and to visualize them without the books."

"So, you were already exercising your Mind Palace," John said, smiling.

Sherlock smiled back. "You could say that, yes. But this notebook isn't that old," he said, taking the notebook in his hands and deducing it, like it was one of the bodies at a crime scene. "Nobody could remember something so specific, I had dozens of notebooks like that. But by the strokes and by the fact that most of them are coloured, I can tell I was more than seven years old."

John raised an eyebrow. "Do I want to know how you know that?"

Sherlock snorted. "Mycroft."

"Mycroft? He used to help you with this...," John tried.

"No, quite the opposite. The drawings got better and richer in details after he left for boarding school."

"Oh, come off it, he wasn't that bad!" John laughed.

"He wasn't," Sherlock said, surprising John and himself by the sudden honesty about his brother. "When he was still living with us, I spent much less time sitting and drawing."

"Oh," John said, trying to make sense of what he had just listened. He wasn't going to tell Sherlock that he had almost admitted that he liked his brother, but he had done just that.

"Really, John, I can hear your thoughts from here. And you didn't always dislike Harry, did you? Children are easy to please," Sherlock said, trying to dismiss John's smirk.

"Well, I was. A piece of candy and a ball and I was happy. But you, easily pleased? Even as a kid? Oh, I doubt that, I doubt that very much." John smiled, still browsing the notebook, but now finally noticing the folded sheet of paper on his lap. He opened and smirked. "Reprimand from your tutor in Harrow."

Sherlock ran his eyes through the paper and smiled to himself before quickly trying to sound annoyed. "Mycroft definitely chose the things in this trunk, the fat bastard."

* * *

**(Nineteen years earlier)**

Sherlock didn't even know why he bothered going to any of the stupid classes at all. He was only fifteen, but he was clearly smarter than all the teachers. The other boys didn't even deserve to be mentioned.

He knew none of those idiotic teachers liked being corrected in front of the pupils, but he just couldn't resist it. _What was the _point_ of teaching Ancient Greek if not to teach it properly?_ Frankly, it was all Mycroft's fault, it must've been all part of his fratricidal plan, to kill Sherlock slowly and painfully of boredom through that school. _Brilliant plan_, nobody would notice, he had to give his brother that.

So, there he was, again, heading to the Headmaster's office for exactly the thirteenth time that year, to listen to some lecture he was going to delete soon after anyway. _What was the point?_

He would prefer if they would just use the ferule and send him to his room. He had mould to grow, he didn't have _time_ to lose with such _deadening_ people.

Sherlock stopped for a moment outside the Headmaster's office to put on his tie. Normally, he wouldn't be caught dead in the stupid thing, but he wasn't in the mood for one more lecture about proper uniform- that was just going to give him a brain tumour. But he was going to die fighting whoever tried to make him use that awful hat.

He noticed the door not quite closed, and could hear perfectly the voice that he knew so well. What was Mycroft doing there, _for God's sake_?

"I am, indeed, responsible for Sherlock, Mr Elliot. But one would think you'd be capable of doing your job judging by the amount of money you and your institution receive." Mycroft told the bald man in front of him. His tone was collected and terrifying, as always.

Sherlock smiled from the other side of the door. He was never afraid of Mycroft, but wasn't going to deny himself the pleasure of hearing that impudent man trembling in front of his brother. He leaned on the wall and continued to listen to the conversation.

"Well, your brother has been telling us for three years that he is smarter than everyone in Harrow, and if he continues to act like that it won't make our jobs easy," the nervous man replied.

"He is," Mycroft said, with an impatient sigh that clearly meant _My bosses have wars to control, I don't have time for this_.

"I beg your pardon," Mr Elliot interjected, startled.

"Please, Mr. Elliot. My brother _is_ smarter. It's a fact. And if you don't know this after three years, you really aren't doing your job," Mycroft said while tapping his umbrella on the floor. "I know you like to sell the idea of challenging the young pupils, but my brother is the greatest challenge you'll ever have."

"You are quite right. He is incorrigible," the man said.

"Quite, mostly because when you try to correct him, he's actually right," Mycroft said.

"Mr. Holmes! That's exactly-"

"Mr. Elliot, three years ago, you told me you'd be delighted to have a Holmes between your pupils," Mycroft interjected.

"Of course, it's an honour."

"Good. That's exactly the issue here: your inability in dealing with a Holmes. The problem isn't his behaviour, as you're an experienced man and this is not the first rebellious teenager you've ever seen. It's the family trait you can't quite grasp. Sherlock has his particular way of joining this too."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you," Mr. Elliot said, sounding lost.

"You are trying to make my brother fit on your normal schedules and rules. That would be ideal, Mr Elliot, but we don't live in an ideal world, do we? He's bored. He's been reading these books since he was six years old. This is being a Holmes. I'm afraid you ended up with the most difficult one of us, but that's an opportunity to do your job, since he is one of the most brilliant also."

Well, Sherlock had to agree with his brother on that. He was probably the most brilliant one out of all of them, but Mycroft would never admit that. Sherlock smirked. He heard Mr Elliot sigh and his brother tap the umbrella on the floor.

"He's a very difficult young man. We try, Mr Holmes. He managed to drive off every one of the boys that occupied the rooms next to his. We tried to offer a violin tutor," Mr Elliot sighed.

"Why on Earth would you do that?"

"Well, since it seems he isn't going to give the thing up. But it's been three years that he's been trying to learn by himself, and he plays – or tries to play – at the most ungodly hours."

From the other side of the door, Sherlock snorted. Why would he make things easier by playing soothing melodies on his violin if he could simply drive everybody mad with awful noises at three in the morning?

"Oh, I see," Mycroft sighed. "He's been tricking you to think he can't play the violin for three years." Mycroft sounded bored. "I imagine that it must be quite an effort for him, since he's been playing beautifully since he was seven, and composing since he was ten. It's one of the few things he loves to do."

Sherlock could almost hear Mr Elliot grasping for air.

"This is Sherlock being a Holmes and a teenager, Mr Elliot. As you can see, he is, in fact, the smartest boy between your pupils. You and his Tutor should probably think of better activities for him. My suggestion would be for you to open the lab for him to do his own particular experiments. There'll be always something for him to learn and I'm sure his Chemistry teacher can learn a lot from him."

What was that? Was Mycroft complimenting him? No. That was going too far. The bastard must be planning something. Probably killing him in the lab. But that was a better idea than to die of tediousness. Sherlock thought that was the perfect time to make an entrance, but the idea of being able to use the lab officially – because honestly, only Mr Elliot could be so stupid to think he wasn't already using it – sounded so appealing that he even knocked before entering.

"Mr. Holmes," Mr Elliot nodded.

"I brought my reprimand. Mr Stoper and Mr Howell already signed it," Sherlock said, trying to ignore the amused expression he was receiving from Mycroft, that clearly said 'I see you're wearing a tie, how polished of you'. _Insufferable fatty_.

"Mycroft," he said, simply, not to risk the chance to have full access to the lab. He could see on Mr Elliot's eyes that he was mostly convinced.

"Mr Holmes, you can go back to your House, since your brother is here, I'll sign your reprimand and give it to him."

"Actually," Mycroft said, standing up and turning to his brother. "Wait for me outside."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slipped off the room, but couldn't resist the urge to listen to end of that remarkable conversation.

"I'm afraid I really must be going, Mr Elliot," Mycroft said.

"Of course. Here is the reprimand, some altercation with the Greek teacher," Mr Elliot said, probably standing up, by the sound of his chair.

"I see," Mycroft said, absently. "Thank you, Mr Elliot, and I won't forget your kindness in opening the lab to my brother's use."

Sherlock actually smirked at that. That was so Mycroft, making the person in front of him think he agreed to something in such a way that he won't realize he hasn't until he had already signed all the papers.

"Oh, I noticed you were thinking about collecting his violin. I strongly advice you not to. He would probably get it back in less than half an hour, and it wouldn't be worth your trouble. You _definitely_ don't want Sherlock's brain working in a way to rebel against someone who took our Grandfather's Stradivarius. He does love to be dramatic about it," Mycroft said, with a sigh, walking towards the door. Sherlock could hear him turning to the Headmaster one last time. "Ah, and the Greek was, indeed, wrong. Good afternoon."

Sherlock managed to get some distance from the door, and leaned on the wall, waiting for Mycroft to bore him to death.

"For Goodness' sake, at least _play_ the violin. You're insulting Grandpa making dying cat noises, and Sherrinford is already dead, stop mocking the poor cat," Mycroft said, while they walked out the imposing wooden doors.

* * *

John laughed. "That's what your brother said when I met him."

"What?"

"He said that you did love to be dramatic," John chuckled. "And you really don't help with the coat and the dressing gown."

Sherlock snorted. "As if Mycroft could be the one judging my theatrics."

"That's exactly what I told him," John said, laughing harder. At Sherlock amused expression, he explained. "I said 'Thank God you're above all that'."

The synchronized giggles filled the flat. And John couldn't help the warmth in his chest at the look of adoration Sherlock was giving him.

"I can't believe you gave up playing your violin just to despise your schoolmates," John said shaking his head. "No, actually, I do believe that," he giggled.

"I had a hideout to play. I just made the noises when I was in my room. But I started to play after that – good music in exchange of the lab. Fortunately I didn't have to share my room."

"You know, Mycroft made a great job defending you. Not that I don't sympathize with the Headmaster. I know dealing with you and your brother can be quite traumatizing," John laughed. "I'll probably have Holmes-induced PTSD when I get old."

"Don't be ridiculous. You're still going to be dealing with a Holmes when you get old," Sherlock said dismissively.

John smiled. If anyone asked him what he wanted of life, he'd say exactly that. Even with the drama, the insufficient sleep and the general chaos of Sherlock. "Yes, I will," he said after a moment. "So, Mycroft knew how to deal with you, I dare say he still knows."

"I don't have the faintest idea of what you're talking about."

"Don't give me that. He did something nice, even if he has his creepy ways. And he is very creepy," John snorted. "Are you going to explain it someday? I'm really curious."

"About what?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"You and your brother," John answered. "The simple idea of childish feud doesn't seem enough to explain you two. And I can't imagine a normal motive for your bickering." And John really didn't. If something could be said about the Holmes brothers, it was that they weren't normal. How the British Government and the world's only Consulting Detective could possibly have any normal sibling relationship? The very idea sounded unreal.

"I do no such thing as bickering," Sherlock said, outraged.

"You do, you definitely do," John chuckled. "We sound like an old married couple most of the time," he said, even before he could think of the words that were coming out of his mouth.

Sherlock smirked. "That's your own fault, you should just do as I say, and not waste our time arguing with me," he concluded.

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, I really shouldn't."

"Yes, you should," Sherlock replied. And _when_ did they become so _god damn close_? Was it warm in there? Why was it _so_ _warm_?

John cleared his throat, trying to clear the haze in his own thoughts caused by _those eyes_. "I know you think that I'm useless, but you can't even remember to eat. And you do need more medical care than the average person," John joked. Sherlock seemed almost hurt and John didn't know what to make of that. "I know you're not average," he rolled his eyes. _Surely Sherlock didn't need John to repeat that every damn time, did he?_

"I-," Sherlock stammered, and that alone was so unusual that John was already looking for signs that something might be physically wrong with his flatmate. "-do not think you're useless, John."

_Oh._

Well. "That's nice of you, thanks," John said, more awkwardly than he had ever felt. _That was nice, actually._ Almost a compliment. For Sherlock Holmes it was _definitely a compliment_.

Sherlock scanned John's face for a moment and then looked straight ahead, without focusing anywhere, apparently lost in his own thoughts. "You do believe I find you useless," he said, and his tone was almost a whisper, revealing that it was a private realization and not information he was sharing.

John felt like he was invading his friend's privacy, since he was having a conversation more with himself than with John. The doctor stood up and carried the tray of tea to the kitchen. He would give Sherlock some private time and make more tea.

Not that his own hands were slightly shaking, not at all.

Not that his own heart was beating a little faster than it should, no.

_But what the hell had just happened?_


	7. Chapter 7

Hey, **thank you** guys following and reviewing the chapters, it's great to see you liking the story and taking the time the cheer me up! Really, it's quite warming (:

**foreverwholocked** deserves a medal just because she is the best beta ever.

And, don't forget, go read **Saving Sherlock Holmes** (on ao3). Sherlock's adolescence here is highly influenced by this work! Do yourself a favor and go read it!

**This is the last but one! Let's get to it!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 7**

John came back to the living room with two mugs of tea and found Sherlock sat on the same spot, with his knees up, supporting his chin. John was always surprised by how young Sherlock looked when he sat like that. He offered a smile. "I just went to make more tea," and handed Sherlock his mug with far too much sugar for John's taste.

Sherlock nodded, accepting the mug. "I never really lose sight of you, you know."

John didn't know what to make of that _at all_, so humour would have to do. "Just when you talk to me when I'm not home."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _John could be so obtuse, it was infuriating!_ "Well, you should be here all the time," he said, impatiently.

John smiled; he couldn't not. For anyone normal that statement would sound just petulant, but one look at Sherlock and he could see that the madman really meant that. "Okay, genius."

"I do not think you're useless," Sherlock said, and now he was just _repeating himself. Because John had to understand, he had to observe. Why couldn't he just think? He had to know._

"Sherlock, it's fine," John said, and he didn't miss the repetition, Sherlock seemed really disturbed and John didn't want him to worry.

"No, it's not fine!" Sherlock exclaimed, while tugging at his own hair slightly. "You have to know that. Don't you ever think that again!" And his tone wasn't light. It was more like a command than any sort of declaration. "I know I'd be dead without you by now, I'm not stupid!"

"Okay," John said, because he really didn't know how to answer such an outburst. It wasn't unlike Sherlock to have such a reaction, he was always shouting and being dramatic with his coat swirling around, but that was completely different. He was admitting something important and John suddenly felt a bit overwhelmed by that.

"I would never let anything happen to you," Sherlock said, now quietly, trying to collect himself. "You should know that by now."

John could understand the feeling; it made him feel more comfortable. "Yeah. I'd chase down all of those bullies," and snorted, without worrying to sound ridiculous.

Sherlock smiled – _really smiled_ – at him. "I know."

"Right, so... Can I choose something else from the trunk?" John asked, already opening it and letting his hands feel the items inside. He pulled what he thought was a book, but ended up being something in between an album of photographs and a scrapbook. "Oooh, this is baby Sherlock we have here," he said, giggling at the scowl his friend was making. "What a chubby baby, oh my God! Are you sure this isn't Mycroft?" John asked, mockingly, since the child on the picture could only be his friend, judging by the dark curls.

John could swear Sherlock was going to have face cramps from the grimace he was making, which made everything even more funny for him.

"Oh, _for God's sake_! That's what babies look like, I don't know why is it so funny," Sherlock huffed.

"The simple idea of you being a baby somewhere in time _is_ funny," John said, trying to suppress his giggles, but not enough to actually succeed.

"That doesn't make any sense. Of course I was a baby."

John just smiled at that. It had always been difficult to John to imagine another time in Sherlock's life, in which he had shown any sign of being undefended. It could sound senseless, but for John it was actually hard to see the powerful force that was Sherlock Holmes now and relate that to a chubby baby, with pale cheeks and drool on his chin. But of course the child in the photograph was the most gorgeous little thing John had ever seen. Of course._ Judging by that_, he had to accept that his friend, indeed, had been a baby once.

John continued to flick through the photographs on the scrapbook, and noticed that there were notes written around each of one of them. Sherlock had been making observations about the family's traits, observing the changes in his and Mycroft's features, as well as in their parent's.

The Christmas photo, with the family in the exact same spot, appeared over and over again, showing the passage of the years and the changes in each one of the family members. The changes were written aside each one of the photos, in young Sherlock's neat handwriting. John felt sad. It was like the simple testimonial of a child that wasn't at all prepared for the death of his parents. "Experiment?" He asked, because he didn't know how to tell Sherlock he was sorry for his loss.

"Something like that," Sherlock answered, peering at the photos, with his face blank. If John didn't knew better, he would think that Sherlock wasn't at all affected. But he did. "I used to hear my father tell us about the Holmeses and that was the only way I had to make my own observations. I tried to get blood samples, but they said I was too young to examine them. Idiots," Sherlock complained.

"How old were you?"

"Five."

John snorted. "I wonder why!"

"I did examined them when I was ten, though," Sherlock smiled. "I already had a partial lab in the house."

"But who started the collection of Christmas photos for you? I know you're a genius, but you couldn't have started this, since in the first one your mother is still pregnant."

"Tradition. Mummy always liked to make us pose for photographs."

"Your mother really was beautiful," John said, scanning through the album. "You do look like her, you know," he smiled. John was getting used to the softness of Sherlock's eyes when his childhood memories and his mother were the subjects. His friend only nodded, looking thoughtful.

"I really look like her," Sherlock said, quietly, as if it was a new discovery.

"Yes, you do," John said, looking at his friend. "How long has it been since you last saw these?"

"I left them behind when I left Sussex."

"You haven't seen you family's photos for twenty years?" John asked, alarmed. "Do you want me to put it back?"

"No, it's fine," Sherlock asked, and he really meant it. There was something soothing about seeing those photos after so long. Things didn't hurt quite so much, and he could notice what he couldn't notice before. "We look...," he trailed off.

"Happy?" John tried.

"Normal?" Sherlock tried the word on his lips, mesmerized.

"Normal for a posh family with two incredible intelligent and good-looking parents and two geniuses as sons, you mean?" John smiled. "Yeah, you look quite _normal_."

"Holmes-normal," Sherlock smiled.

"Yes, something like that," John chuckled. "You've never really liked eating, have you? In the second Christmas photo you're still not even one-year-old and you're already too skinny. "

"No, I never have," Sherlock agreed. "But I have you for that now."

John snorted. "Yes, Captain John Watson, the nanny."

"I'm sure Mummy would appreciate it, she was always nagging me to eat," he said, and his tone had something smooth in it and it made John smile. Obviously Sherlock had always been besotted by his mother, and it was undeniably good to hear Sherlock talk about someone with such fondness. John knew that tone, it was one that Sherlock normally saved for Mrs Hudson. He did understand why now.

The sequence of photos ended abruptly with the one from the Christmas of 1987, showing a ten-year-old Sherlock, with his mass of untamed curly hair and the characteristic air of defiance on his face. He was tall for his age – having grown rather drastically after his fifth Christmas, judging by what John could see from the photographs. After this photo, only one more page on the scrapbook was used. In the end of it, a clipping from a local newspaper showed Sherlock and Mycroft at young age in the funeral of their parents – _'deceased on plane crash'_. July of 1988.

"This is invasive," John said, without knowing what else to say. The photo showed the two boys – because even if Mycroft could already show all the signs of his omnipotence, that was what he really was – isolated from the other people present at the funeral. A detailed photo showed the mausoleum of the family. A black stone with neat golden letters said simply: Holmes.

Sherlock sighed deeply, running his fingers through the clipping. "Yes. I think that was the day my brother decided he was going to control all the cameras he could," he said simply, and John knew that he was not joking.

John noticed something and went back through the photos he had already seen, flicking through the pages and peeking at the clipping Sherlock had in his hand.

Sherlock smirked. "You've got questions."

"The umbrella. There was never an umbrella before, that's the first photo in which he has his umbrella," John said, frowning and looking at the clipping again. "You have a scarf around your neck. You two look like...," John trailed off, confused. Sherlock smiled thinly, knowing what he was trying to say.

"Us?"

* * *

**(Twenty-three years earlier)**

When Sherlock received the news about the accident that had killed his parents, he went very quiet and didn't speak for days. And the reason why he could, at least, have some days of peace and quiet was because hours before that, Mycroft had had a totally different reaction.

When Mycroft received the news about the accident that killed their parents, the last thing he could think of was of sitting still.

The first one was to find a quiet place with a telephone from where he could call the household and tell them that he would be the one delivering the news to his brother. _Yes_, he was at Cambridge. _No, he didn't give a damn_. He wasn't going to let a non-Holmes do his job.

The second one was to call his family's solicitor to talk about Sherlock. _All lives end_, he knew that much, Father never quite let him forget about it, but at that moment he really wished his parents had left a note warning him that he could end up fighting for an eleven-year-old boy with an enormous trust fund which would attract_ God knew _whichdistant relatives.

Mycroft had always detested legwork, but that day he really didn't know how to sit still. _No, he didn't care about the money for now_. _He knew it was too soon, but he had to know who was left in charge of Sherlock. No, he didn't care if the solicitor was in a meeting, that wasn't the _time_ to make him wait. He didn't care. _

Mycroft's fortune was that before dying his Father had taught him to use the tone of voice that made people do _what_ you need them to do _when_ you need them to do it.

After hanging up with the insufferably slow solicitor, and after knowing that, indeed, he was the one in charge of Sherlock, _because of course Mummy was never going to trust his precious baby boy to anyone other than Mycroft_, he could finally breathe.

When he arrived at his family house with the news, of course Sherlock was already aware that something had happened. He wasn't a Holmes for nothing, and he wasn't Sherlock Holmes for less than being able to deduce that some tragedy had happened. Mycroft could read the disappointment in his strange eyes. If he was alive, the tragedy was about their parents. Mycroft could understand the feeling.

He left his brother to his own devices and violin, he knew better than to try to talk to Sherlock. _Why would he do such thing? That was what normal people did_ – they went to therapy, they spoke their hearts out. _Lovely._ The Holmes clenched their hands in tight fists, cleared their throats and kept walking. _They didn't have the _time_ for meltdowns_. Caring was not an advantage. And Mycroft knew that he was about to find the truth behind that motto now that he was responsible for a boy with too much brain and too little of the rest for his own good.

While Sherlock played the violin, Mycroft planned the funeral.

_No, nothing big._

_Who was that who called to know about the service?_ _Who was 'Auntie Amélie', for Christ's sake? And what do they mean she is coming from Austria and she's asking about Sherlock? _

Mycroft went to sleep that night asking himself if he was a bad person for wishing his parents' bodies had just disappeared in the sea. After fidgeting in his bed for a while, he decided he didn't give a damn if he was a bad person, he really wished that.

On the day of the funeral, it rained. Of course it rained because sometimes life really can't be more obvious. But Mycroft wasn't obvious, so of course he didn't plan that. He was so focused on the list of relatives he had on his mind since the day before that he only noticed the sodding rain when he was half way to the car. And of course he didn't have an umbrella. Life wasn't fair. And of course the driver didn't really care if he was soaked when he got in the car and didn't turn on the heating. And Mycroft wouldn't admit that he needed it.

_Of course he didn't know where Sherlock was. Of course they had to wait. What was the driver suggesting? That they simply left Sherlock alone in the house on the day of their parents' funeral? _

Mycroft knew that that would be his life from then on. Everybody would have something to say to the nineteen-year-old who was still going to University and was now in charge of a child. Everybody would have some lovely advice about how to raise a boy. Of course no one had the faintest idea about how to raise a Holmes boy. But Mycroft knew it was his job – _and only his_ – to find out.

He was trying not to shiver. He was basically an orphan, in charge of an eleven-year-old boy, soaked and miserable. And he didn't quite remember the name of that Great-Uncle who was coming from France. _For God's sake, what was his name? _

At least he remembered of putting his scarf on his inner pocket. He was going to have something warm and dry to put around his neck at the hateful funeral.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock finally got in the car.

Mycroft looked up to his brother and he was dry_, because he had remembered the umbrella._ It took all Mycroft's patience not to knock him on the head with it. Not a single sodding drop on that wild curly hair that remembered Mycroft so much of his mother's that he needed a second to recollect himself.

Sherlock gave him a little nod. Still no words. Mycroft was thankful for that, he wouldn't know what to do with them, anyway. And of course Sherlock didn't put on his tie.

Mycroft could already imagine the look on Cousin Bernadette's face that would say 'Who does he think he is? He can't even make the boy use a proper garment'. He hated them all.

When the car finally parked at the cemetery, Mycroft noticed Sherlock was the one shivering. Maybe he was cold, maybe he was going to be sick. Maybe he was just an orphan on the way of burying his parents.

Before he could open the car's door, Sherlock interjected him, tapping the umbrella on the floor of the car and offering it to him. The rain had stopped, but he took it. Still no words. _Thank God for that_. He took his dry scarf from his inner pocket and wrapped it around Sherlock's neck.

Nobody would notice Sherlock wasn't wearing his tie.

Nobody would notice Mycroft had forgotten his umbrella.

Everybody would know The Holmes didn't need anyone else.


	8. Chapter 8

_Hey, guys, this is where our story ends! I hope you enjoy this last chapter. There will be so much fluff, your heart will ache!_

_I have to thank **foreverwholocked** yet again, because this wouldn't have been the same without her. Having someone to talk about the writing and to help me with everything made the process easier and much more fun._

_**Thank you who followed the story and left reviews**, they were quite motivating. I'd love to read your opinion about the ending and the general plot. _

_I like to plot a lot, so if any of you ever need someone to talk about some story of yours, I'll be glad to help, no matter what. (Seriously, you can save my profile and message me anytime about your stories, I know it's quite annoying not to have anyone to read your things before you publish, or to just plot together. And I love doing that!) You can also try my tumblr: sureaintmebabe . tumblr . com_

_It's ending guys! It's thrilling and kind of sad, but let's get on with it!_

* * *

**CHAPTER 8**

"How do you know all this?" John asked. "I don't imagine you and your brother having a drunk chat about that day."

"Of course not!" Sherlock scowled. "I spied on him while he used my father's office to plan the funeral. The rest was deductible."

John sat there for a while. "I think I understand..."

"I don't know what you're talking about, but it's improbable, since you're quite stupid," Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes. "I mean... There wasn't a fight, he didn't stomp your toys when you were a kid, he didn't try to murder you in your sleep when you're a baby-"

"No, I would have done that," Sherlock snorted.

"Anyway, I think I get it."

In the end, it all came back to that surname. John had to admit that after knowing a little about their family history, Sherlock's relationship with Mycroft didn't seem so strange anymore. They were both Holmeses – they would skip the phony pleasantries, and jump straight to the dramatics. It would be the British Government against the world's only Consulting Detective, fighting about cheating diets and unpleasant violins. It sure did give John a little perspective.

They couldn't be normal, they weren't John and Harry – and thinking it through, John had to admit that Sherlock and Mycroft were awfully closer than he and his sister. It didn't matter how much bickering they had between them, they still knew each other better than anyone else. Not only because they were brothers, but because they were Holmeses. They would just sit and deduce the hell out of each other.

_'You can imagine the Christmas dinners.'_ – '_Oh, no, God, no.'_ But John could, really. Now he could imagine them perfectly. Nothing of the Christmas spirit, or the good natured speeches. One hundred percent of deductions, revelations, dying cat noises on the violin and the tap-tap-tap of that bloody umbrella on the floor. Well, John had to admit that he liked it better now. Anyway, the image of a Christmas dinner still sent shivers through his spine. John was sure Mummy Holmes would not be pleased.

When John snapped from his thoughts, Sherlock was looking at him with an amused expression. "What is it?" John asked.

"Sometimes I can't quite stop myself from wondering, John," Sherlock sighed, "_why_ do you care?"

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you aren't just helping. You were curious, I can see that now you're running theories about me and my brother through that slow head of yours. This I understand." Sherlock turned and sat himself with his back to the arm of the sofa, facing John, alarmingly close. "But it's not only that – no, it's not just curiosity, or you would have asked me before. You really care. Well, you care about everything, I know that much, it's obvious. Caretaker, Soldier, doctor- all of that is clear and obvious. But this _caring_...," he paused, as if he didn't know what to make of the word, "... for _me_. This doesn't make any sense. _Why_?"

John looked startled at Sherlock. He tried to suppress the urge to a) have an outburst worthy of a Holmes, b) laugh until his jaw hurt, c) cry until his eyes bleed. He was already relieved, thinking that he wouldn't have to answer when Sherlock spoke again.

"Well?"

"I can't bloody well deduce your family history, can I? I don't know, it's nice knowing about your past, you never tell me anything."

"You never asked."

John sighed. _How do you explain to Sherlock Holmes that not everybody is a nosy git like him and his brother?_ "Thought it would be better to leave it to you to decide to tell me something or not," he shrugged. "Why are you asking me this anyway?"

"You lost a girlfriend and a rugby match- Oh, don't look like that, I knew today was a night of rugby at the pub, I really do pay attention to you, you know. And all this to spend two evenings listening to me babbling about my life, after spending three weeks with me at the hospital," Sherlock said, confused. "Why?"

"Well, I'm kind of your biographer, I'm your blogger," John said, with a tentative smile.

"John."

"I'm your friend."

"_John_."

"_I don't know_," John said, quietly, almost a whisper, not looking Sherlock in the eyes. He tried to clear his throat. "I'm under the impression that you'll be stuck with me for a very long time. I know you think it's ridiculous, but I just...," he sighed. "Surely you're a poncy arrogant twat- What? No, don't you roll your eyes at me, you are. But...," he sighed again, "I_ don't want_ to be anywhere else. I _need_ to be here."

Sherlock looked at him as if he were mad. After hearing all those stories about Sherlock's life, it didn't surprise John that he had never had someone who would stay by his side without asking for anything at all.

"You are blatantly stupid, John. That's the only possible explanation," Sherlock said. _Wrong_. The other possible explanation was that he was the most amazing thing in the world, and that was more likely to be true. "I'm glad you are."

John frowned. "Thanks?"

Sherlock snorted, but didn't tear his gaze from John's face. The scrutiny was so familiar to John that he constantly asked himself if he was the nutter for feeling soothed under it. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was low and intimate.

"My memories of you never faltered," Sherlock said. At John's confused expression he explained: "In the hospital, every single time I woke up, I knew exactly who you were, and could remember everything about you, even how many jumpers you have."

"You know all of my jumpers?"

Sherlock looked at him as if he had grown another had. "Of course I know. But you're missing the point!"

"Sorry."

"What I'm trying to say is...," he stopped. _What was he trying to say? Damn it._ "Don't you dare go anywhere else, because you are the one fixed point in a whirlwind."

John smiled, absorbing what he had just listened. He had not been prepared for that, but he thought that even in a million times he wouldn't have been. Nobody was ever prepared for Sherlock Holmes. John sat facing him. "That's... hm..." He paused, and changed what he was trying to say to something much simpler. "I won't. Well, you cured my limp, after all."

Sherlock relaxed and smiled, looking very pleased with himself. "Yes, I did that. I saved you from a dull life."

"You're so modest."

"Why would I be modest? It's the truth. I am brilliant."

"Shut up. I could do without the head in the fridge."

"Oh, for God's sake, not that again!"

"Always," John said, smiling, despite of himself. "So, do you want to continue tomorrow?"

Sherlock had sat with his feet on the coffee table, with his fingers under his chin. He took his time to answer the question. John suspected that he didn't know how to answer. "No, I don't need the trunk anymore."

"What do you need?"

"I-" Sherlock trailed off. He brushed his fingers across his lips and narrowed his eyes, looking at nothing in particular. John left him be while he returned Sherlock's things to the trunk and took the mugs to the kitchen.

"You," Sherlock said from behind him, and John jumped at the sound of his voice. Sherlock moved like a cat sometimes, the doctor didn't even notice his presence in the kitchen.

"Me what?"

"You asked me what I need," the detective answered, as if it was obvious and John was being stupid just to irritate him. "I don't need anything, but I need you," he said and frowned. "It doesn't make any sense," he said looking genuinely confused.

John tried to hide his smile. It was just like Sherlock to say something like that as if it was nothing.

"Good. I need you too."

"But what does it mean?"

John sighed and smiled fondly at Sherlock's expression. The poor thing was really at a loss. The doctor approached Sherlock and held his gaze.

"It means," he said, brushing a curl of the detective's forehead. He thought about how to complete the sentence, but he didn't know how to put into words everything that they've been through together, and everything they meant to each other. What did everything mean? How could he know? Some silly romantic part of his brain supplied several explanations that Sherlock would find nonsensical and outrageous. John couldn't explain with words.

He took Sherlock gently by the jaw, and the detective instinctively lowered himself to rest his forehead against John's. The doctor brushed his lips lightly across the corner of Sherlock's mouth and pressed a gentle kiss against it. He felt and heard Sherlock's surprised intake of breath.

For a moment panic shot through him. _What was he thinking?_ But before his second thoughts could take over, Sherlock's arms pulled him into an unexpected embrace, and John found himself resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder and felt the detective rest his head on his. If John didn't know better, he would think Sherlock was cataloguing his hair.

After sometime, Sherlock snorted.

"What?" John asked, looking up to find Sherlock smiling at him with the most amusing expression.

"So you _were_ jealous of me with Irene."

John arched his eyebrows and smiled despite himself. "Now who's stupid?"

"It's hardly my fault you can be this much of an idiot, is it?" Sherlock asked, looking more and more amused by the second.

"Oh shut up, you git."

Sherlock snorted again, but tightened his grip around John. "Preposterous for _you_ to be jealous, John," he said, and John could feel Sherlock's smile and the warm brush of his breathing near his ear. "_You_ are my exception."


End file.
